It wasn't part of his plan.
He was supposed to grab a tea and decompress after three days of mental whiplash.Instead, he found himself walking toward his old high school.
The building looked the same.Tired windows. Rusted gate.A place built to shape minds but barely holding itself together.
He pressed his palm against the front gate and took a breath.
"You're walking into memory now," the voice said."Be careful. It bites."
—
The hallways were smaller than he remembered.Time had shrunk them, or maybe he had just grown.
Posters of safe slogans lined the walls.Not ideas—just noise.
He peeked into an empty classroom.
Whiteboards. Fluorescent lights.Sterile.
But then… there it was.
A portrait.
Framed. Crooked.Dust clinging to it like shame.
He stepped closer.
The face looked back at him—serious, focused, resolute.But muted.
As if the dust wasn't accidental.As if someone wanted it there.
"We used to wipe those frames every morning," the voice said."Not because of law. Because of respect."
— "Now they hide you in plain sight."
"They don't need to tear me down.They just need people to forget why I was put up."
—
Emir reached into his pocket.Pulled out a handkerchief.Wiped the dust.
No ceremony. No drama.
Just... clarity.
Behind him, a cough.
He turned.
A janitor. Older. Watching him.
They stared at each other for a long moment.Then the janitor nodded once.And walked away.
That said more than words ever could.
—
On his way out, Emir passed the main office.
A student inside was arguing with a staff member.
— "We should be allowed to hold a debate about the republic's foundation!"
The teacher sighed.
— "It's not banned. Just… discouraged. Focus on current curriculum."
Emir smiled grimly.
"And there it is," the voice whispered."Discouragement: the polite cousin of censorship."
—
That evening, back home, Emir wrote in his notebook:
"The portrait wasn't gone.Just dusted over.Like memory.Like truth."
"But the hand that cleans… is still here."
—